


Devotion

by Dragonsquill (dragonsquill)



Series: A Company of Brothers [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Asexual Character, Big Brothers, Brothers, Family Feels, Little Brothers, M/M, Other, Pre-Canon Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 21:12:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1484176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/pseuds/Dragonsquill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a love story.</p><p>It is not a romance, but it is a story of the kind of love that shapes and breaks, brings joy and pain, and gives a person's life meaning.</p><p>This is the story of Dori and his brothers, in the long years without a home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Mothers and Papas

**Author's Note:**

> For information on my take on movie!canon dwarf aging, see [this tumblr post.](http://dragonsquill.tumblr.com/post/82501190181/on-dwarf-aging#notes)
> 
> In the prologue, Dori is 11 (~7 human terms), Frerin 16~10, Thorin 21~14, Dis 7~4, Dori's Mother/Feya 73. They are living in Erebor.

Dori loved his parents. Papa was warm and funny, and not too tall. He was just the right height for carrying Dori on his shoulders without it being scary. Mother was quiet and gentle, and she knew how to comb his hair without ever pulling. They were, he knew, the best dwarves in all the mountain.

Dori wasn’t so sure about the rest of the dwarves of Erebor. They were big, and loud, and tended to look down their long noses at him for reasons he didn’t yet understand.

Dori was eleven years old, and perhaps unusually serious for a child his age. He laughed and played with the other dwarflings after lessons, but he also needed time each day just for himself. He liked to curl up in his own little nooks throughout the south tunnels, where Dori lived with his parents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. Dori liked the south tunnels, because all the adults there treated him just like the other children. They never peered at him, or sneered, or murmured things to each other that he couldn’t hear or didn’t understand. He liked his aunts and uncles, even though they were really old. Aunt Bola was over _two hundred_ , and she had _five_ dwarflings, which was a lot. Her youngest was already in his fifties.

Dori’s parents weren’t old. They were the youngest parents of all the dwarflings he knew. He dimly recalled a private dinner when he was only eight years old, with special cakes and gifts from his mother’s brothers. It had been a party, but his mother had cried at the end, because it was only a little party. Dori’s paternal grandmother, who next to Mother and Papa was his very favorite person, held her hand and let her cry for a while, but then dried her tears and said, “Don’t let anyone take away your joy in life, Feya. If you do, they win. This was your Coming of Age. You were surrounded by your friends and loved ones, your husband and your beautiful son. That’s worth more than decorations and music.”

That was Grandmother’s motto: _Don’t let anyone take away your joy in life. If you do, they win._ Dori heard it a lot when he left the south tunnels and went into Erebor’s great main halls or the huge market. He whispered it under his breath sometimes when people shook their heads and tsked behind his parents’ backs. Dori knew this was why his family often sold their wares at the market in Dale. Whatever it was that the dwarves whispered about, the Men didn’t know or care about it. They just liked the delicate gold and silver thread Dori’s father made, his mother’s intricate buttons and clasps. 

Sometimes, Dori liked Men better than he liked Dwarves.

Erebor’s market could be fun, too, though, especially on feast days when everyone else was too busy to worry about Dori’s little family. Bright banners would be hung all around, and Dwarves from all the guilds would set up their stalls. It was a bit too crowded, and a bit too loud, but when Dori felt overwhelmed his father would laugh and swing Dori up on his shoulders. Dori looked a great deal like his father, who was a very handsome dwarf indeed. Mother would slip her arm through Father’s elbow, and they would walk around to buy supplies and trinkets and sweets, and sometimes toys just for Dori. 

It was on one such occasion, on Durin’s Day of Dori’s eleventh year, that Dori first saw the young princes and the little princess up close for the first time. 

Well. Fairly close. Close enough to make out their dark hair, and the fine cut of their clothes, and to see the shimmer of golden embroidery. His father had beamed with pride and squeezed Dori’s ankle. “We made the thread used in their clothes,” he said with a grin. “And the king’s men paid a fair price for it. Thror never takes advantage of his subjects. Remember that, Dori. That says a lot about a king.” 

“Yes, Papa,” Dori said obediently, but he was really craning to get a better look. He wanted to know if the princes really looked like they had always been described.

Dori’s cousin Jora said that the older prince – Thorin – was so delicately featured that he looked like an elf. He had a thin nose and no beard to speak of, even though he was already over twenty. Dori thought he didn’t look at all like an elf, and there was a little fuzz coming down his jaw. It would grow in eventually. He liked the way the prince walked, with his hands behind his back like a proper grown-up dwarf, even though he was a reedy dwarfling still. He bet that Prince Thorin didn’t worry if people whispered about his thin nose. Dori’s eyes, already trained to look for fabric and thread, noticed how fine the deep blue cloth of his coat was and knew it must be soft and warm. A small crown curled around his brow. Prince Thorin looked just as a prince ought, from all the stories Dori had been told.

Prince Frerin walked beside his brother, but he was not so very proper. He grinned and waved at the crowd, bowing now and again and calling greetings to individuals he knew. His hair was brown, not black, and messy, even though someone had clearly tried to make it neat. He didn’t seem very princely, with his cheeky smile, but he seemed nice. He wore red with silver, and a small crown as well, all silver. It was crooked. Dori shuddered. His mother would never have let him go out in a crooked crown!

Princess Dis was a few years Dori’s junior, and her mother, the Princess Fris, kept a firm hold on her hand as they walked through the market. Of course, dwarves split apart and made room for the royal family, so Dis wasn’t in any danger of being trampled like Dori might be. But Dis was pulling hard against her mother’s hand, tugging and tugging to see everything, so Dori thought maybe she was just holding on so Dis wouldn’t run away. _Some_ dwarflings were like that. Not Dori, of course. He was a well-behaved little boy, like Prince Thorin. 

“Grandmother says we’re related to them,” Dori said as he pushed up a bit with his thighs. The royal family was moving out of sight, and he’d really wanted to see what patterns had been embroidered in the princes’ tunics with his papa’s thread. He may have pouted, just a little, because he couldn’t see them well. “She said we’re cousins.”

Papa’s shoulders moved in a sigh. “Aye, she does. But it’s generations back, lad, and on the wrong side of the blanket. It’s nothing to concern yourself over. You’ll learn to be a fine young craftsman, and you won’t have to worry about royal problems.”

“What’s ‘wrong side of the blanket’?”

Mother coughed and glared at Papa, but Papa only laughed. Papa laughed a great deal. He laughed at the people who sneered at them, looking them right in the face and grinning sometimes. Dori thought Papa was the bravest Dwarf in all of Erebor. “It means that when your great-great-whatever grandfather was born, his parents weren’t married.”

Dori wrinkled his nose. “That’s impossible,” he said with absolute certainty.

“Is it?” Papa asked. “And why is that, my little know-everything?”

“Because you have to be married to make babies,” Dori said primly. “That’s how it works.”

Mother blushed. “Dori! We don’t talk about – those sorts of things in public. We have better manners than that.”

“But Papa-”

“Will stop talking about it as well,” she said firmly. “You’ll understand someday, when you’re older.” Her eyes darted around, then she said sadly, “Probably sooner than I’d like.”

Papa swung an arm over her shoulder and pressed a light kiss to her hair. Mother was just the right height for Papa to kiss his favorite braid. That’s why they were perfect together. “All right, my love. What shall we talk about instead? How about what to buy our little scamp for Durin’s Day?”

Dori grinned and let out a little whoop. He thoroughly approved of this new topic of conversation.


	2. Dragons and Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To those in the south tunnels, the dragon truly came from nowhere.
> 
>  
> 
> _Smaug attacks Erebor, and it is not only the royal family who must flee for safety._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2781, Dori 25~16, Thorin 35~23, Frerin 30~20, Dis 21~14)

To those in the south tunnels, the dragon truly came from nowhere.

Dori would learn later that Prince Thorin sounded the great alarms that rang through the mountain: the order for evacuation, which sent the tunnels into a tizzy of activity. Intellectually, everyone knew the procedure; in reality, more than half started running wildly for their rooms, packing away valuables instead of fleeing the mountain.

Dori was in class when it happened, studying Khuzdul with cousins of approximately the same age. They were so deep in their studies – only a few months in, and every single one of them took it seriously – that it took a moment for the alarm to register. Their teacher remained cool and calm, gathering her charges and leading them up and out of the tunnels to one of the side paths leading to the main gates. The children mostly chuckled to themselves over the panicking adults. Nothing could happen to Erebor that could place them in true danger. There was probably a fire in the kitchens, or an accident down one of the deep mines, or-

A dragon.

Panic erupted, and Dori was swept away in a tide of screaming dwarves.

 

The guards could do nothing in the face of the beast. The great gates were wrenched open and off their hinges as the giant red beast tore over the assembled company. Dori and his age-mates pressed against the walls and watched, horrified, as guards were crushed beneath the dragon’s feet. There was nothing he could compare it too, this giant monster breathing fire over his people. It defied imagination. He caught sight of Prince Thorin in his rich royal armor, standing at the forefront, and wildly thought that someone should grab him and pull him away. He wasn’t even an adult yet, still a thin stripling-

The dragon roared and Dori’s hands flew to cover his ears. 

A hand grabbed his sleeve and pulled hard. He opened his eyes to see an older girl he didn’t recognize, perhaps in her thirties. “Run!” he saw the girl say, though he couldn’t hear her with his hands over his ears. “While the gates are open! Into Dale!”

Dori tripped over his own feet, but he ran. A dwarfling in front of him – no more than eleven or twelve – tripped and fell. He grabbed the child, heaved her into his arms, and kept running. It felt as if she weighed nothing, a feather wrapping her arms around his neck and sobbing for her mother. 

_Mother_ , he thought. _Papa!_ For a moment he faltered and turned. Should he go back? Should he run to the textile quarter and search for them, make sure they got out? Papa would surely be fine – nothing could hurt his strong, happy father – but Mother was so delicate, so tender, she would need-

Dwarves pressed in on him, shoved him forward. 

He couldn’t go back. 

He tightened his hold on the child in his arms, turned, and ran for the once-impenetrable gates of the city. Bodies littered the walkway, and dwarves groaned in pain. Some stopped and helped them, but most dodged and ran through the carnage. Dori nearly stopped twice, but the sniffling dwarfling wetting his neck with tears and snot kept him moving. 

They burst out into the sunlight.

There were dwarves who shunned the sunlight, who would prefer to live their entire lives deep in the mountain. Dori, used to trips into Dale for Market Day, had no fear. But he had never before been so relieved to see the great sky, the scattered clouds, the distant disc of the sun. 

“Keep running!” a voice boomed. “Don’t stop moving! Keep children close! Pick them up and carry them if you can!”

Dori tripped and nearly fell over another dwarfling, smaller than the first, left alone and sobbing in the midst of the carnage. He shifted his small burden to one arm and snatched up this other. “Hold on!” he yelled. “Don’t let go!” And another pair of hands dug tenaciously into the fine material of his shirt. 

After that, everything became a blur.

There were elves on the horizon.

Elves who turned their backs.

There was running. Screaming. More running. Guards in armor, noble females in fine dresses, gangly apprentices and solid journeymen, an occasional miner. Panic. Shoving and crying, accusations, and _running._

The mountain shook behind them and the ground quaked, but Dori was determined not to fall. He would not let anything happen to the dwarflings in his care. 

 

It felt as if hours passed before the wild mass of dwarves began as one to slow to a walk. No one had run to Dale as planned – it lay already in ruins, destroyed by the dragons. They wandered, aimless and shocked, over the fields of Men. They destroyed crops beneath their boots without a thought. No one spoke. The air was filled only with smoke, and ash, and harsh, exhausted breathing.

Voices began to rise over the multitude. It took time for the words to sink in – Dori was so tired, the children he was carrying had fallen asleep and his arms felt leaden while his shoulders screamed at him to put them down. But he couldn’t stop moving, couldn’t stop walking, pushing forward through a field of green vegetables that caught at his boots but didn’t make him fall.

The voices were calling out names. Names of mothers, names of fathers, of children, of lovers and grandparents and everything in between. Voices screaming and calling and rising, and the children in Dori’s keeping were so tired they slept through it.

Dori stopped walking.

“Here now,” came a voice close to his ear, and he jumped, his eyes wide. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Just – let me take one of those before you fall over.”

Strong hands reached out and lifted the girl from Dori’s left arm. He protested weakly, but as soon as the child was gone his arm hung more or less useless at his side and he hissed through his teeth as pins and needles stabbed through the tight muscles. Tiredly, he forced his eyes to focus. 

Green-hazel eyes framed by messy brown hair met his. 

A jolt of surprise went through Dori, and he suddenly straightened his back, lifted his chin, tried to come to attention when he was much too tired to do so. “Prince Frerin! I didn’t – I’m sorry-” He knew how to behave in front of royalty. His grandmother had insisted he know, had given him lessons and made him practice – but now, surrounded by the ragged remains of his entire world, all that etiquette abandoned him.

He was _so tired._

The prince rested a hand on his shoulder. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Master…?”

Dori felt his cheeks warm. “Dori. Son of Khori.”

“Master Dori. You’ve carried these children a long way. Do you know them? Siblings or cousins?”

Dori shook his head. “I just . . . I found them. And carried them out.”

The prince nodded and looked over Dori’s head a moment. At 25, the prince was already taller than a great many grown dwarves. “Come then. We’re going to try and get this organized. Somehow. I think perhaps you, I, and some others about our age could help by gathering as many children as we can in one place.”

Dori looked around as well. “So their parents could come look for them?”

“Exactly!” Frerin clapped the shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Come on, let’s see what we can do.”

Dori nodded before he could really think about arguing. They began to gather children and other dwarves in their twenties. Dori found three of his age-mate cousins and set them to work after a brief but joyous reunion. A group of the twenty-somethings set aside a patch of the field with their bodies, creating a sort of fence that quickly filled with dwarflings who had been snatched by passers-by or led out by teachers and tutors. Those teachers joined them, helping with the dwarflings in the circle, identifying those they knew. 

The dwarflings cried. They cried for food, for naps, for their mothers and fathers. The sound was constant, and no amount of soothing songs or attempts at storytelling could soothe them.

It was the worst sound Dori had ever heard.

He began to circulate among the adults, getting them to form lines, remembering as many names as he could. Some began to push and shove to get to the children, but he pushed back, surprised at the strength he found in his arms and shoulders to do so against adults. He was the child of threadmakers, he had never used brute strength like this before. It came easily. “You’ll frighten them!” he snapped. “We’ll form a line and bring everyone through!”

“Who are you,” one noble, his fine clothes smudged with soot and dirt, “to give me orders?!”

Dori’s mind raced. “I am under orders,” he said, standing straight and squaring his shoulders as he had seen his grandmother do so many times, “from the prince of Erebor!” He didn’t mention that this was Erebor’s _youngest_ prince. Let the noble believe his orders came from Thrain or even from Thorin. “Night is falling. All you’re doing is making it harder for our people to get to their children!” He growled the words with unfamiliar authority.

The noble’s wife laid a hand on his arm. “We will get in line,” she said. “Thank you.”

Dori took a slow breath and continued through the crowd.

It was dark when he made his way back to the dwarflings and his age-mates. Many of the children were gone, claimed by parents, cousins, someone. He nudged past the protective wall of nervous and sleepy twenty-somethings to find three children and one teacher remaining, along with Prince Frerin.

Frerin smiled at him. “There you are,” he said. “I heard you set up our dwarfling receiving line.” He dipped his head momentarily. “Thank you.”

Dori felt his eyes widen. “I – it was not problem. My lord. My. Prince.”

Frerin took a slow breath. “My name is Frerin,” he said, “and I hope you will use it.”

Dori lowered his head and thought about propriety and wrong sides of the blanket. But then he thought of children left behind, and a young prince who thought to protect them. “Yes,” he agreed, lifting his gaze. “Frerin.”

Frerin beamed at him, that same open smile Dori remembered from Durin’s Day all those years ago. He had seen the prince from afar many times since then – tall and lithe, his hair a mess of unraveling braids, eyes sparkling, and always smiling and waving at his people in the wake of his serious older brother. 

His brother.

Prince Thorin. Princess Dis. Prince Thrain. _King Thror._

If he wasn’t so tired, if he’d thought about it, he never would have asked the next question that came out of his mouth. “Who’s in charge?” 

At least it was better than _Is your entire family dead or alive?_

Frerin rubbed a hand over his face. He had more beard than his brother had at that age, and he scratched at the hair along his jaw. “My grandfather is . . . indisposed. At the moment, my father and brother are running things.”

Dori noticed he didn’t mention the princess, Frerin’s mother. “Do they know where you are?”

Frerin nodded. “They approved of what I decided to do.” He glanced to Dori with unusual seriousness. “Do you know of your family?”

Dori’s muscles locked, then released like water.

Father. Mother. Grandmother.

“No.” His voice was hoarse.

“Then we shall look first thing in the morning,” the prince proclaimed with the ease of one who is used to things going his way. “But for tonight, would you care to join me and these three scamps for some sleep?” He motioned to the remaining dwarflings. Dori looked them over. He didn't think the ones he had carried out of Erebor were there, but he realized in a bleary, exhausted way that he didn't remember what they looked like. A brunet, he thought, and a redhead, but those were common hair colors, not like his silver-blond. He narrowed his eyes at one curled up ball and was surprised to find the little Princess Dis. Frerin followed his gaze and gave a wry smile. “I’ve been put in charge of my sister. The other two haven’t . . .” he sighed. “They haven’t been claimed yet. But people are still gathering. I’m sure someone will recognize them soon. Come now, all of you.” He raised his voice to be heard by their other age-mates. “We all need to get some rest. The adults have set up watches, so we can grab sleep while we may.” Suiting action to words, the prince lowered himself to the ground.

He patted the grass beside him.

Dori, so exhausted he couldn’t worry about position or propriety or anything else, fell asleep with his back curled against a prince of Erebor.


	3. Families and Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It took until the morning of the fourth day for Dori to find his mother.
> 
> _In the wake of Smaug's attack, the survivor's of Erebor are driven across the lands of Men. Families have been torn apart, food is scarce, and the dead cannot be counted._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (2781, Dori 25~16, Thorin 35~23, Frerin 30~20, Dis 21~14)

It took until the morning of the fourth day for Dori to find his mother.

He spent the intervening days assisting Prince Frerin as they attempted to organize the survivors so families could better locate each other. He wasn’t the only one helping, of course, there were about two dozen of them, but he still felt as if he was doing something . . . important. Something that gave him purpose.

They needed purpose. Without it, there was only desperation.

Dori remembered a summer, several years earlier, when a disease swept through Dale. It had been strange to the hardy dwarves, whom infection rarely touched, but it had caused devastation among their neighbors. As the sickness spread, the elderly and the young weakened as those in the primes of their lives mourned or panicked. A miasma hung over the town for months, and bodies were piled up, moved, burned, buried, dozens dead before it was over. The dwarves had watched from the safety of their mountain. Though they sent supplies and healers to help, they didn’t truly understand the hopelessness that hung over Dale in those long weeks.

Dori understood the despair of those Men now.

There were almost no supplies. Hunting parties were gathered and sent out, but game had fled before the dragon and word spread quickly that the elves were blocking all access to the Greenwood. Dwarves who knew nothing of crops ripped food from the ground and ate it raw. The survivors of Dale – trickling out now from the city – began to fight them for what remained, began to insist that there was not enough to support Men and dwarves. 

They were right.

The rumor of impending starvation began to spread.

Dori tried to ignore it all. He ignored his hungry stomach and his thirsting tongue, and he worked to get names and try to reconnect families. And through it all – as he gathered more names, as he scratched them on scraps of paper and told them to wait in certain areas, organized finally by family trees – the dread in his heart thickened and grew heavier.

“No luck?” Frerin asked quietly at what should have been lunchtime of the third day. 

Dori shook his head. “But my cousins have found their mother. So they’re spreading the word that the south hall sur-” _survivors_ , he tried to push out, but if there are survivors then there must be so many more dead, “that those of us from the south hall will gather in the apple grove.” To call it an apple grove was misleading. It had been, once, but now it was covered in ash and the unripened, sour apples had been ripped down and eaten. The Men had warned them they would get sick, but Dwarves were made of sterner stuff. Despite their distaste for fruit even in its proper state, they had torn through the apples cores and all.

“You should stay over there, then. Better chance of finding someone.” The prince frowned down at him. They were all covered in soot and sweat, their bellies growling and dark circles under their eyes, but Frerin managed to look as awake and alert as one could be in such conditions. 

Dori shook his head, too quickly. “I don’t want to stand around in one place,” he blurted out. “I’d rather stay busy. Please give me – I need something to _do_.”

The prince hesitated for the briefest moment before resting his hand on Dori’s solid shoulder. “One of the scribes escaped with enough supplies to make a few maps of the areas, and which families we’re putting where for now. Come with me. I’d like you to have one.”

The prince knew the fate of his family. The entire encampment knew. His mother, their patient and clever queen, had not made it out of the mountain. His grandfather was not well, his father, brother, and sister all living and relatively unharmed. Yet he treated all those who did not know with a grave understanding that smoothed any hurt feelings from Prince Thorin’s growing brisk efficiency. 

There were only eight maps, and it was not lost on Dori that he was being trusted with something precious when he was handed his. It was a little overwhelming, holding that piece of paper in his hand, knowing that there were adult nobles and warriors who hadn’t been given one. But Prince Frerin just spread it out and explained it to him, where each family was, how many generations back to go. Dwarves knew genealogy; it was a good method to use.

Though what would Frerin say, if Dori pointed out that he was also of the line of Durin? If he said his grandmother thought it was something important and taught him to walk and talk like a noble, but his father laughed it off as nothing, and in the end he was just the dwarfling who was born before his parents were of age?

There was no real temptation to find out.

“You’ll be in charge of this section here. That includes the South Tunnel families, so they should feel more comfortable with you there.” Frerin reached into a pocket and pulled out a rough scrap of metal, carefully engraved with Durin’s crown. “Our agents are carrying these. Use it if you have any trouble.”

Dori ran square fingers over the coin. “I’m only 25,” he said. “Not even battle-ready yet.”

Frerin clapped his shoulder and grinned at him, the expression wild-tinged and terribly out of place in the midst of so much exhaustion and panic. “Then it’s a good thing I don’t need you for battle, Master Dori. I just need you to point dwarves in the right direction. And you’ve proven yourself remarkably adept at that.”

\---- 

The first time he heard his mother’s voice after the dragon’s attack, he was so exhausted he thought he’d imagined it. It wouldn’t have been the first time – he had heard her voice, and Grandmother’s, and Father’s a dozen times each. He’d spun around, heart pounding, to find a stranger crying out for someone else. 

The South Tunnel had been filled with fabric. With wood and oil. With wool and thread. 

With fire.

He had found precious few people to lead into the skeletal remains of the apple grove.

“Dori!” 

He didn’t turn. He frowned down at his map, made a note of how many people he’d counted-

“Dori! Darling!”

And she was in his arms, the map crushed between them.

“Mother?” he whispered, and then stronger, “Mother! Mother!”

He said her name as a prayer, wrapped his arms around her small frame and breathed in the dirty smell of her brown-red hair, so different from the usual scent of her mint hair oil. She stank of sweat and fear as she burrowed into him. She sobbed into his shoulder, her hands gripping at his shirt like a child. “I thought you were dead, I thought you were gone, I thought-”

They slid to the ground and for the first time since his ears rang with the roar of a dragon, Dori wept.

\------

Father was dead. So was Grandmother. His uncles, Mother’s brothers. He never found any of them. Their family had been small by dwarvish standards already, but when Prince Thrain pressed them forward, putting distance between the Longbeards and their home, all that remained was Dori, son of Yori, his mother, Feya, three age-mate cousins and their mother, his mother’s first cousin. Everyone else was gone. 

Dori saw less of the princes in the following days, as Erebor’s survivors were suddenly pushed into motion. There were rumbles within the mountain, and the great beast – _his name is Smaug_ , voices whispered in the dark – had come out to ravage the remains of Dale. Situated now with the other survivors from the south halls – few though they were – and the elders began to assert their authority over the group. Dori and the other twenty-somethings who had worked so tirelessly in those first terrible days found themselves pushed down and aside. They didn’t fight it. They were too exhausted, too relieved to have reconnected with what little family remained.

Too heartbroken that so many died.

Fundin, the king’s advisor, estimated that perhaps 20% of Erebor’s population had escaped the dragon’s assault. This news caused waves of dissention, angry dwarves gathering and demanding that they return, somehow infiltrate the mountain, and search out any survivors. A few small groups disappeared in the night, determined to sneak back and return with survivors, but none returned. Wild rumors spread that they had been eaten, that they had been killed by the Men, that they had been whisked away by elves – anything but that they had died on a fool’s errand in a land of death. 

The few guards who had escaped Erebor suddenly had their hands full, and dwarves as young as their fifties were accepted under Prince Thrain’s banner to help maintain order. Fights became commonplace. Twice in the next three weeks there were something like riots, dozens of survivors turning on each other in grief and rage and hunger.

Dori managed to avoid most of the fighting, but not all of it. He’d never been rough and tumble; not exactly timid, he simply avoided the coarser play and resulting fights that many of his age-mates engaged in. He wasn’t quick to anger, or long to hold a grudge – if he had been, he’d have had to resent far too many dwarves as he grew to understand all the whispers that followed in his parents’ footsteps. Yet, when he was drawn into his first fight – _worthless brats, both those princes, sneering down their noses at the rest of us, eating their fill, hiding away the king, he’s probably dead_ – he won.

He remembered only bits and pieces of the fight later. He remembered growling, “You should shut your mouth about things you don’t understand,” at a dwarf fifteen years his senior and a head above him in height. Remembered being shoved, the snarled response, “What, you think you’re his cousin now, little royal bastard?”

Remembered the feel of bone breaking under his fist, the crack and spray of blood as a nose snapped under his fist. Remembered a burst of strange satisfaction, the rush of energy and vitality through his arms and into his hands and pounding in his chest. 

Five times he fought in the first month – two times he was dragged in, three he just _snapped_ , just _exploded_ , red in his eyes and his fists flying. Every time he fought someone larger than himself. Every time he won – inexplicably. He wasn’t trained. But he was _strong_ , he had never known how strong. Noses broke under his fists, teeth flew, the insults they spat in his face ramming back down their throats. 

The one who spoke of his father, of Yori’s young marriage, of Grandmother’s pride in being a _royal castoff which is all you’ll ever be_ , couldn’t talk by the time Dori was pulled off him. He was sixty, and a full head and a half taller than the younger dwarf. He barely got in a hit before Dori had him laid out on the ground.

Dori stood over him and gasped in ash-filled air. His heart pounded and exhilaration swept away the cold, hopeless pain in his chest for just a few minutes.

The ash in the air caught in beards and clothes, but also in the lungs of those craftsmen who weren’t used to life in the mines. It also never lessened, but only grew thicker. In the distance, they sometimes heard the roar of the dragon. 

Smaug was destroying the land behind them. They could only stumble forward in the wake of three princes and their missing king. If Dori missed the prince, his age-mates, those days of having something to do, something important – if he kept his map tucked away close to his heart rather than giving it to one of the craftmasters who had taken control of his life – he didn’t allow himself to dwell on it. 

Dori’s life came to revolve around keeping his mother out of the madness that rose and fell in their wandering camp. Feya was not well. There was something like a sickness passing through the camp, though Dori didn’t think that’s what it actually was. It wasn’t an illness of the body, but of the mind. Dwarves were giving up. Some simply fell and would not be moved. Most were carried. A few were left behind on the assumption that they would get up and follow. A couple did. A couple did not. 

There were no grand funerals.

There was not enough food.

There were no ponies or carts, no fresh clothes or materials for crafting.

There was only land stretching in front of them and a dragon destroying the land behind.

Years passed.


	4. Announcements and Discoveries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dori’s mother was smiling when she told him about the baby.
> 
> _The once-proud dwarves of Erebor travel across Arda, dirty and starving. The guilds are gone, there is not enough food, and their careful way of life is crumbling around them. Amidst such troubling times, Dori receives both news and an offer._

Dori’s mother was smiling when she told him about the baby.

For a long moment, her words didn’t properly register with him. Only that smile, which said _good news_ , while her words were anything but.

“You’re . . . what?” he demanded at last, his voice strangled low in his throat.

His mother beamed at him. She looked younger than she had since Erebor, her hair intricately and beautifully braided, her torn and tattered dress just _so_ instead of hanging messily. “A baby!” she repeated, her voice as inappropriately pleased as that smile. “We’re going to have a baby!”

“We?!” Dori’s voice rose even as he clenched his hands in an attempt to calm himself down. “Who is _we_ , exactly? Did some dwarf marry you behind my back and swear to help raise this baby of yours?”

Feya’s smile faltered. “He . . . no. But you and I can-”

“I’m not even an adult!” Dori threw his hands up. “How can you be thinking about _babies_ now?! We don’t have a home! We’ve spent the last five years wandering in caravans! We can’t find steady work, we don’t have a mountain to live in, there’s barely enough food to keep us moving – we’re no better than _rats._ ” He growled the words that the Men spat them at him when he went in the marketplace, desperate for work and food even though at thirty he should have been studying instead of scrounging. “And you talk about bringing a _baby_ into this?!” His laugh was harsh and had a hysterical edge. “And no dwarf willing to claim it, no less!”

Dori knew his mother sometimes sought . . . companionship from some of the widowers in the caravan. Once such an arrangement would have been so frowned upon that only the most audacious of dwarves would dare to consider it. He could still remember the stinging comments and sidelong looks from his childhood as high-born dwarves and fellow merchants counted up the months between his parents’ too-early marriage and his own birth. That had been bad enough, but _this-_

Five years of wandering had changed the Longbeards. New marriages happened as they always had, with fierce loyalty. But there were more widows and widowers than young couples. Among these survivors of Erebor were widows who lost not only their homes and their trades but their spouses as well . They sometimes looked for a kind of temporary companionship in each other that was foreign to most dwarves. They kept it quiet and amongst themselves, so most of the Longbeards – like Dori – turned a blind eye on the behavior. 

But this.

A _baby._

There would be no ignoring this.

“You must announce who the . . .” Dori stumbled over the word, over the memory of his handsome Da with his silver hair and quiet confidence, “father is.”

Feya scowled at him and shook her head. “I will do no such thing,” she announced with unusual spirit. “The council – or what’s left of it,” Dori winced, “will try to force me to marry.” She straightened her slight shoulders, even more narrow in these years of scarcity, with a mulish expression that, though unusual, spelled trouble. “I will never marry again. I loved once. I will not marry anyone else for some lesser reason.”

“Then you shouldn’t be _with child_!” Dori snapped. “This is madness! An unmarried widow raising some dwarf’s child?! He’ll be a joke before he’s even born! Worse than _I_ was!”

Feya jerked as if he had slapped her. “You are not a joke! You are my darling boy-”

Dori laughed. It was not a happy sound. “I didn’t understand why everyone whispered behind our backs when I was a child, Mother, but I’m fully aware of it now. And it will be ten times worse for this baby.” He glared at her. “We have no money. We have no food. Now we will have no _honor_ as well.”

Feya’s eyes narrowed, her customary diffidence disappearing behind a rising wall of stubborn anger. “What honor do you imagine we have, Darling? What honor have any of us, begging for food in the streets of Men?”

“The honor of our line! Of my father! Of our-”

“Dori, you let your grandmother plant too many stories in your head. You are no more a Durin than I am, just because one king’s mistress had an unacknowledged child generations ago!” Her voice cracked as she pressed a hand to her belly. “She would be _proud_ to have another noble bastard to lord over the rest of us!”

Dori growled low in his chest, something red flashing across his vision. “Don’t talk about her like that,” he snarled. “Never again.”

He spun on his heel and stormed out of the tent, afraid of what he would do if he stayed. Dori was used to his temper – it had always flashed, but he’d always brought it to heel. _You’ve a temper like me,_ his Grandmother told him. _It’ll get you in trouble if you’re not careful. I’d hoped you’d get Khori’s good humor, but you didn’t. So you’ll just have to learn to control yourself._

Deep breaths and counting and flexing his hands did nothing. Something of it showed on his face. Dwarves who would normally call a greeting - or more likely, simply ignore him - scattered as he stalked between the ragged tents that made up the refugees’ latest camp. 

He needed to _hit_ something.

Later, he would be horrified by this lack of control. He would chastise himself for letting go of the thin veneer of civilization that kept him from giving in to the fear and despair of this endless road, this aimless wandering under a king who rumors said was half-mad. Later, he would hate himself for looking like anything but the son of a wealthy merchant and the secret descendent of kings.

Now, he hit something.

It was a young tree, but pain shot up his fist when it slammed into the bark. He didn’t stop, though – he hit again, and again, both hands, the skin tearing and the delicate trunk snapping as he roared his fury into the evening air. He raged and pounded until there were splintered twigs at his feet and his knuckles were bleeding and raw and his breaths gave way to gasping gulps for air.

“Done now?” an unfamiliar voice asked behind him.

Dori jumped and turned, feeling a flush rush up his neck to his cheeks and being so caught out. “I-I didn’t-it’s-” he stuttered, raising his sweaty palms and pressing him to his cheeks. His beard was still thin and soft, already silvering like his father’s, and did nothing to hide the heat. He looked down as he felt hot tears press at his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

“No need to be. I’m not here to protect trees.”

There was humor in that voice. Dori peeked up through the fall of his hair, fine and straight, at a dwarf in rich material and light armor. The clothes were worn but well-patched, and still showed the signs of fine craftsmanship even after five years on the road. It was Erebor noble’s clothing; very likely Dori’s family had had a hand in making it. 

Pride mixed with impotent rage at the thought. Once his family had made beautiful things; now they scrounged in the dirt with the rest of his people. “My lord,” Dori said, trying to carefully modulate his tone to the cultivated accent of those merchants and craftsmen who spent a great deal of time among the elite. It was the way his mother spoke, and his grandmother, though his father hadn’t really bothered. “I should not have lost my temper.”

The nobleman snorted indelicately. “If ever there was a time to lose your temper, lad, it’s now,” he contradicted. “Doing so in a way that provides decent firewood isn’t a bad idea, though you’ve made a mess of your hands.” He stepped forward and looked at the remains of the tree. His eyebrows – dark with streaks of gray, and quite bushy, rose in surprise. “You must be quite strong.”

Dori murmured agreement. This man wasn’t the first to say so, though he was the first who hadn’t been on the business end of Dori’s fists first. His strength was an embarrassment to him more than anything else, more suited to a warrior than a fine thread-maker. It made him uncomfortable, made him feel out of control. 

Control was important.

Out here, control could be everything.

“My name is Fundin, son of Farin,” the nobleman greeted, sketching a small and polite bow appropriate for a lord lowering his head to an inferior. “I am-”

“An advisor to the king,” Dori breathed, all etiquette forgotten in the face of so well-known a dwarf, “and the leader of the armies under only King Thror himself.”

Fundin smiled. He was a big dwarf, with wild, dark hair liberally streaked with gray. Well-known was an understatement; he was only under the royal family in renown, and was so closely related as to almost be considered a prince himself. “Aye, that I am. And you might be?”

Dori’s eyes flew wide and he bowed low, sudden and awkward. “Dori!” he all but squeaked, “Son of Khori. Formerly of the South Halls.”

“A tradesman,” Fundin said thoughtfully. “Khori. He was a thread-maker, wasn’t he? The one who created the fine golden thread Thorin’s mother was so fond of.”

This fierce pride was unmarred by shame or embarrassment. Dori straightened and lifted his chin. “Yes, my lord.”

“And you plan to follow in his footsteps?”

Dori faltered. “Here?” he asked, looking around at the dark camp. “On the road? I . . .” he carefully resisted the urge to bite his lip, a nervous habit he had no patience for. “I don’t see how.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty, my lord.”

Fundin walked around him, looking him over. Dori was of average height, with a square build and strong features that, when paired with his silvering hair, was beginning to garner attention among his age-mates. At their age, of course, this meant little more than uncomfortable teasing and occasional stares. “Battle-ready, then. Have you any training?”

Dori almost laughed. “For battle? No, my lord. I was meant to be a merchant, not a warrior.”

“We have little need of merchants, Master Dori, here upon the road. But we have a great need for warriors.” He came to a stop in front of Dori, crossing his arms across his chest. They were thick and corded with muscle, scarred along the bare wrists. He wore a war-axe strapped to his back that looked heavy enough to bring a normal dwarf to the ground just for attempting to carry it. “You’re strong, and you need an outlet for some of this anger – like many of us.” One thick eyebrow rose. “Would you be willing to attend some training?”

“War training, Sir?”

“Aye. Though it would not mean you were a warrior, or would have to join the guild. There are . . . special rules in place for now. You would train, and make a decision whether to continue specialized training when you came of age.” Fundin frowned. “You would be getting the basic defense training at this age anyway. I am simply suggesting that we . . .” his voice trailed off, and then he smiled. It was a warm, welcoming expression that didn’t quite seem to reach his eyes. “I’m suggesting that with your strength, you could be an asset to our people. Protect your family. …Do you have family, lad?”

_We’re going to have a baby!_

Dori closed his eyes a moment. His too-thin mother in her once-beautiful gown, now nearly colorless. A helpless babe in need of clothes, food, and shelter.

“Yes, my lord,” he said, and he meant it to sound strong but it came out as a whisper. 

_A baby._

“You would be compensated. We don’t have gold, but we have food. Your family would be as well-fed as any in the camp. How many would you be feeding?”

“Myself. My mother,” his tongue tripped, “A. Sibling.”

Fundin nodded. “Enough food for three. A bit more for you, because the training will be intense. My own youngest son is not much older than you. Both the princes are training now as well.” Dori knew when someone was selling something. He’d be taught from the cradle how to watch out for merchants who knew how to appeal to pride, of vanity, or to drop interesting names into conversation. He was being actively courted for a role that he had never considered before. A role that would come with violence, with the possibility of killing or of death.

A role that came with food.

And camaraderie.

With Prince Frerin, who might remember him (though why would he?).

“Where would I live?”

“With the others in training, for a time. After a couple of years, you would be able to move back home. Unless there’s a reason you can’t be away, then we’d make special arrangements.” Fundin offered him an easy-going smile. “We must always be flexible in these dark days.”

Dori frowned down at the ground. He thought of going into human villages and begging for menial labor. He thought of being constantly hungry. He thought of his mother’s dress, growing too large for her instead of too small. He thought of outfitting and feeing a baby.

He lifted his head. “When do I report to you, Sir?”

Fundin nodded approval and clapped a hand to his shoulder. “In the morning. But you’ll come with me now to have those knuckles seen to.” 

The hand firmed, and pushed, leading Dori away from his mother’s tent and the ruined tree and the horrible, overhanging threat of starvation with a _baby_ about to enter his life.


	5. Lessons and Propriety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dori reported to Fundin in the morning.
> 
> _In return for food and shelter, Dori joins the ranks of the warriors. Far away from anything he ever dreamed of for himself, he finds a measure of belonging._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Dori 30~20, Frerin 35~23, Dwalin 37~24)

Dori reported to Fundin in the morning.

His mother hadn’t said a word to him, not since he’d told her he intended to train as a warrior. He’d apologized first, for his temper, and with her soothed had told her of Fundin’s offer. She’d been furious, and then utterly silent. She’d shoved his morning gruel at him and turned away, not even checking the smooth fall of the single braid he’d gathered his hair in, copying what he’d seen of the other trainees. 

Not a pleasant start to such a nerve-wracking day. 

“Ah, Master Dori!” Fundin was waiting for him, flanked on either side by younger dwarves Dori thought might be his sons. They looked incredibly different from each other, one small and square, the other a tower of muscle. The elder wore the armor of a full warrior and a mace across his back, though his expression was mild; the huge younger carried heavy axes and wore lighter training armor. “We’re glad to have you. These are my sons, Balin,” he motioned to the smaller dwarf, “and Dwalin. Balin will get you registered and then Dwalin will run you through some drills to see where you are.” He motioned to Dori. “This is Dori, son of Khori, whom I spoke of last night.”

Dori bowed low, and then wavered for a moment, uncertain if he was supposed to comment. He knew the rules of working with social superiors: don’t initiate, answer questions, only ask if it had to do with your craft and they have contracted your services. That hadn’t been a question, but Dori wanted to tell him that he’d never so much as held a weapon, unless you counted the wickedly sharp scissors used for fabric or cooking knives. 

Before he could work himself up to saying something, Balin inclined his head politely. “We’re glad to have you,” he said with a warm smile that crinkled his eyes at the edges. He was a handsome dwarf, his full beard already more gray than black. “I’ll just need to get some basic information-”

“Which you can get,” Fundin interrupted, “while Oin looks at the lad’s hands.” He shot an amused look at the lumpy, clumsy wrappings around Dori’s knuckles. His mother had pointedly left the tent when he started washing the torn skin in a bowl of water the night before, leaving him to try and do the work himself. Dori shifted his feet and slid his hands behind his back. “Take him to the healer’s tent. He’ll need to meet Oin sooner or later anyway.”

Balin worked quickly and efficiently, gathering basic information on Dori’s family background and complete lack of experience in fighting, as well as making notes about his training in sewing and thread-making. “When we can get our hands on decent a material, that’s going to be incredibly useful,” he assured an embarrassed Dori as Oin muttered over his swollen knuckles and patted on alcohol and mint. “Like you, many of our fighters don’t have proper armor. We have some leather workers we can pair you with.” 

Dori felt his heart rise at that. Maybe he wouldn’t be completely useless after all. 

Dwalin took over when Balin excused himself. The big dwarf was gruff to the point of being rude, barely bothering to introduce himself before planting a big hand between Dori’s shoulders and shoving him in the direction of a large patch of grass already worn down almost to dirt by shuffling feet. “Take this,” he grunted, and threw a heavy, weighted mace at Dori. Dori fumbled but didn’t drop it, holding it awkwardly in his hands. He was used to the delicate feel of needles, at most the handle of a battered cooking knife bartered for in a village of Men. Dwalin scowled and moved forward to roughly correct his grip. “Don’t hold it like it’s going to bite you, lad, grip hard here and here-”

“Dwalin!”

Dwalin looked up with something like a snarl, glaring over Dori’s head at whoever had interrupted them. “Frerin,” he grunted, and Dori felt his eyes widen, his heart speed up a bit, “I’m working at the moment.”

“Oh? Is this the new recruit your father was talking about?” Dori looked down, head properly lowered, and watched as the prince’s fine but well-scuffed boots came into view. “I heard you did a pretty good job in a fight against a tree.”

Dwalin growled. “ _Frerin-_ ”

But Dori felt his mouth curve into a smile for the first time in too long, and lifted his chin enough to take in the sharp features and wild brown hair of Erebor’s third prince. Frerin wore light armor similar to Dwalin’s, and two swords were strapped to his back, one at the shoulder and one at the waist. “Prince Frerin,” Dori greeted him, and bowed low, nearly overbalancing with the unfamiliar weight of the mace in his hands.

Frerin’s eyes narrowed, his brows drawing together in an unexpectedly fierce scowl of concentration – then abruptly cleared into a broad smile that made his green-hazel eyes light up. “Dori!” he cried approvingly. “Dori the organizer and grabber of dwarflings!”

A laugh barked from Dori’s lips before he could stop it, only made worse by the look of utter confusion on Dwalin’s fierce face. “I did not-” he started, before firmly cutting himself off. He hadn’t been asked a question, he wasn’t practicing his craft-so only in his mind did he finish, expect you to remember me.

Frerin had no such qualms. He clapped Dori firmly on the shoulder. “Where have you been hiding?! I looked for you from time to time, but you’d effectively disappeared into the masses.” Frerin turned that irrepressible cheer on Dwalin. “Dori was part of the group that helped us get organized just after the attack. He’s more fierce than he looks when someone doesn’t get in line and do as their told! I distinctly recall he made Lord Daren stand down when he tried to shove forward in line for some of those horrid apples we all choked down.”

Dori blushed as Dwalin turned a considering look on him. 

“I should have known when Cousin Fundin said he’d seen a young dwarf teach a recalcitrant tree a firm lesson that it was you!” Frerin winked. “This is your first day, isn’t it? Come on, I’ll show you around properly before Dwalin beats you into the dirt.”

“I have to see how much knowledge he has-” Dwalin argued angrily, but Frerin waved him off.

“Absolutely none, I’d wager. Am I right?” He glanced at Dori and away before waiting for a proper reply, but Dori nodded sheepishly anyway. “So this afternoon he can watch some of the drills, and I’ll take him through some of the weapons. No reason to bruise him up yet.” A warm arm slung across Dori’s shoulders – Dori came to the prince’s chin, and the heavy weight was unfamiliar, unused as Dori was to this sort of camaraderie over the last years – and started steering him firmly away. “I’ll show you the living area first,” he said loudly for Dwalin’s benefit, “and then the armory, which will make our resident beat-down artists happy, like Dwalin here.”

Several steps away, the prince toned his voice down and whispered, “Dwalin’s a little over-enthusiastic. I’ll let him beat you up later to make up for stealing you now.”

Dori answered without thinking. “That’s not terribly comforting, Prince.”

Frerin grinned. “It wasn’t really meant to be.”

\-----

Dori learned in the following weeks that training was all about routine.

He was assigned to a tent with three other trainees, dwarves of varying ages who were all newcomers to the warrior camp. He was the youngest by seven years, and the others were from the families of miners. Dori suspected they found his accent and carriage amusing, though they didn’t say anything to his face about it, not after seeing him take blows from Dwalin without going down that first afternoon (a crowd had gathered, much to Dori’s shock and embarrassment). There was no time for awkwardness among them, though, because there simply wasn’t a free moment for the four tent-mates to talk.

They woke at dawn, ate breakfast, and moved into a steady schedule of practice, tactics, weapons care, reading and writing, messaging, basic riding, care of the ponies, cooking for troops – the list seemed endless. Every minute of the day was carefully scheduled and accounted for, overseen among the newer recruits by Balin and by the distant and stern Prince Thorin for the more experienced ones. Frerin moved freely throughout the weapons’ training, showing a marked skill for matching fighters with weapons that would suit them within just a few days. They had to train in everything, from small axes to bows to swords and daggers, but as the first month ended everyone began to specialize, at least between distance and melee weapons.

In his third week, Frerin solemnly placed a broadsword in Dori’s hands. “You’re strong,” he said with unusual intensity. “Use it. Throw yourself behind the strokes and take blows that would knock others down. Protect yourself and those around you. We’ll train you with a shield, as well.”

Dori, much to his surprise, thrived.

The schedule was grueling, but it was predictable and even more important, purposeful. This was not begging for work or wandering with an empty belly and no prospects. This was training. Every muscle in his body ached that first month, but he found he didn’t mind it. They didn’t ache from aimless wandering, or from hunger, or from restless exhaustion born of nothing to do. It was a good pain, born of hard work that came more easily to him than he would have thought. There was enough food in his belly, and he was assured that rations had been sent home to his mother as well.

Being watched as he practiced gradually stopped bothering him. His strength moved him forward quickly, though Dwalin loudly despaired of his footwork until Frerin chased him off and took over that part of Dori’s training. Dori began to hear murmurs of “promising” and “heavy armor” and “lots of possibilities,” which sent a mingled bolt of pride and fear through his chest.

For three months, his body grew stronger and the pain lessened. Dori’s shirt grew too tight in the shoulders and he released the seams and patched in material. He made friends of a few dwarves and easy acquaintances of the rest – there was little awkward conversation when there was always some task to complain about. And sometimes he slipped, at dinner or while trying to make his feet dance as he was instructed instead of “stomping like an angry oliphant,” that he forgot to say Prince and only said Frerin and it was something like having one of his cousins back, almost like having somewhere to belong.

And in all those days, he rarely had time to worry over his mother and the baby in her belly.

\----

At the beginning of his fourth month, as cold began to seep into the camp and rumors spread that they would be soon be moving, Fundin gathered the assorted trainees and told them to go to their families and help pack. “You have two days before we set out. The morning of, you will meet here and receive your assignments for the move. You will be expected to assist trained fighters in protecting the caravan, but you’ll be assigned to your family’s area to offer them assistance.” 

Dori’s stomach immediately curled into a knot. 

_Mother._

Feya looked . . . better. The curve was back in her cheeks, her hair looked richer, and her dress fit everywhere except her gently rounded belly, where it pulled tight. She smiled when she saw him, drew him close, and gasped over the changes in his face and body. Dori felt himself slowly relax, and a smile pulled at his mouth. But when he tried to talk about his experiences over the last weeks, she shut down, pulled away, pressed her lips together.

“You are meant for beauty,” she said in a voice rusty with too much emotion, “not war.”

They spoke of other things. They spoke of packing and moving, of the food that had come in for Feya. However, when Feya spoke of the baby, of plans for a little brother or sister, it was Dori’s turn to shut down. He didn’t want to worry about how she would care for an infant alone while he was away training. Not yet. Not now.

And so they spoke of nothing at all, of inconsequentials, of the weather and local gossip he had missed in camp.

Erebor’s survivors knew to travel light and pack quickly. Such a large group of wanderers was never welcome anywhere for more than a few months at a time; no matter how carefully they managed, they still made a mess, hunted too much, brought noise and tromped over the land. Even the kindest neighbors (and certainly only the kind ones allowed them to settle for any length of time) eventually sent them on their way. It took only one afternoon to wrap up their belongings into neat packs they could carry on their backs, though Dori insisted on lightening his mother’s load significantly. 

“I’m not helpless, Dori,” Feya argued, but it was only a token protest. She watched him fondly as he moved their meager belongings to his own bagpack. They would have one pack on the pony-drawn cart assigned to their group, which were traditionally driven by females with small children to manage. Dori determined he would do what he could to guarantee his mother some relief from time to time aboard the cart. 

Next time they moved, she might be leading a cart herself, with a babe at her side. 

He tried not to dwell on it.

When they set out after a last noonday meal three days later, Dori walked along the edges with a crusty old warrior who would have been considered retired in the days of Erebor. He carried a worn sword and wore scraps of armor, but he felt a fierce sense of purpose and pride that almost made it possible to ignore the whispers that erupted in his mother’s wake.

Almost.

But not quite.


	6. Brothers and Comrades

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frerin brought him the message, looking thoroughly confused as he delivered it.
> 
>  
> 
> _Dori is called from the training camp to the caravan at the news that his mother is giving birth._

Frerin brought him the message, looking thoroughly confused as he delivered it.

“A dwarf just came from the main caravan,” he told Dori after pulling him away from his latest training session. Dori still had a sword in one hand and a practice shield in the other, and his breath came in steady pants. He didn’t tire easily, though; he hadn’t even in the beginning, but after six months of daily training, his stamina was growing somewhat legendary. “He said that your mother is having a baby?”

Dori’s heart plummeted and his breath caught. Had it been long enough? He’d never even asked how far along she was when she told him. Was it too soon? Was it late? She’d been heavy when he’d seen her last, two weeks before on a weekend pass, but he didn’t know anything about pregnant females.  
“Now?” he asked, his voice creaking up to an unfamiliar, high register.

Frerin frowned at him. “Apparently.” He paused a moment, then added, “I’ll arrange the time for you. Do you want to take one of the ponies?”

Dori wasn’t fond of the ponies. They didn’t seem to get on well with him, and riding lessons were quite possibly his least favorite part of his training. While he could take blow after blow in their makeshift practice ring without going down, his groin and thighs absolutely detested saddles. He bit his lip and looked away a moment before answering. “Yes. I should get there as quickly as I can.” He took a breath. “. . . Shouldn’t I?”

“I would think so. Come on.” Frerin took his arm, waving at Dwalin and Fundin, who glared but didn’t argue – Dori had learned that, despite appearances, Frerin’s charm worked on them. They just never let it show on their faces. 

They crossed the camp to the paddocks for the ponies, Frerin calling out which he wanted and sending the stable hands scrambling. Dori moved to get a saddle as the tall prince followed on his heels. It was obvious Frerin wanted to say something and, given the fact that usually he said whatever he wanted whenever he wanted, it was a bit disconcerting to see him looking uncertain. 

“What is it?” Dori finally asked, trying not to sound exasperated, worried, guilty, or any combination thereof as he slung the saddle on a rather placid brown and white pony. He appreciated Frerin’s choice. There were faster ponies, but they were trickier to handle. 

“Your mother . . . she’s having a baby?”

Dori grunted as he knelt to buckle the girth. “Yes.” He’d finally give up on always saying _my prince_ after being reprimanded constantly for two months and then beaten to the ground in revenge for not doing as he was told. Frerin had actually planted a foot on his stomach, smirked down at him and announced, _Just Frerin will do._

“I was under the impression your father died at Erebor.”

For a moment, Dori froze. A dozen scenarios flashed through his head, each of them worse than the last. His hands dug into the pony’s thick coat – winter was settling in – and he took a quick breath. Then he said, because to lie would do no one any good, “He did.”

“Then your mother has . . . remarried?”

Dori slid the bit into the pony’s mouth, running a hand over the blunt nose. “No.”

“Ah.” Dori glared at the pony’s neck before lifting a foot to the stirrup. He was surprised when Frerin knelt, grabbed his leg, and all but tossed him up on the beast’s back. He nearly went over the other side but caught himself just in time. Not a graceful move by any stretch of the imagination. “Do you know who the father is?”

Dori gripped the reins – rope instead of proper leather – and stared ahead. He couldn’t look the prince in the eyes as he answered, “No. She won’t tell me.”

“Does she know?” The question sounded at once curious and gentle, one of many combinations only Frerin could manage. If he’d been anyone else, the prince would have come across as incredibly intrusive. The fact that he genuinely cared somehow made it something else. “Who it is, I mean.”

“I don’t know. I need to get-”

A hand settled on Dori’s boot. Dori closed his eyes a moment. Just one more moment without the looks and the whispers. 

That’s all he wanted.

He forced his eyes opened, straightened his shoulders, and looked down at the prince.

Frerin met his gaze with the same ease he always had. There was a softness in the line of his mouth, in the delicate lines around his eyes from spending all day out in the sun and the weather, but he didn’t look . . . he didn’t look disgusted, or angry. “Is that why you’re here, Dori?” he asked quietly. “Is that why you joined when Fundin asked you?” 

Dori’s hands tightened, his knuckles shining white because he didn’t have gloves yet. There was talk of getting wool and adding knitting lessons to their list of skills. Since he already knew the basics of sewing and had spent time patching together clothes and uniforms that should have been discarded years earlier, Dori would no doubt be one of those taught. It would be nice to have warm fingers for once-

He tightened his jaw. He couldn’t keep pretending the conversation wasn’t happening.

That was his mother’s way. Not his.

He took a deep breath. “It was why I was hitting the tree,” he said, with just a trace of wry humor, “and not actually because the tree was calling me names.”

The hazel eyes narrowed. “You . . .” Frerin’s mouth twisted to the side in an exaggerated expression of consideration – the prince did nothing by halves. “You didn’t have to do that, Dori,” he said, and his voice was suddenly gentle, and that gentleness made something hot and angry spike in Dori’s chest that was followed immediately by shame. “There are plans in place for children. My father and brother are guaranteeing that mothers with children under thirty always have enough food. It’s not a lot . . . but it’s enough. If that’s why you’re here . . . you don’t have to be.”

Dori felt his mouth fall open, his eyes widen.

He’d had no idea. He hadn’t asked. He’d assumed-

“I didn’t know,” he whispered.

Frerin almost smiled, though there was no humor in it. “I know I don’t understand what it’s like for our people, because even though I don’t have fine clothes and royal apartments, I always have enough food, and my brother keeps me here, away from the caravan. Were you truly afraid your family might starve if you didn’t join the guard?”

Dori shook his head. “I couldn’t find work.”

“You’ve only just turned thirty!”

Part of Dori wanted to slide off the pony’s back, to have this conversation properly. The other half wanted to kick his heels and send her running, far away from the prince and the camp - toward his mother, and a baby. 

He felt trapped.

“We . . . we got some food. But it wasn’t enough for a female with child, or one nursing a baby. We needed more. My mother was already losing weight.”

Frerin’s expression darkened. “If – if you’re here for your family,” his words faltered, he squared his shoulders and lifted his chin, though the dark brows didn’t rise. “Dori, you’re an asset here, and Fundin will have my head for this. But if you want to leave, I’ll see to it that your rations keep going to your mother. I’d been led to believe that none of our people were going hungry. No one should be here, training to fight and kill, because they are desperate for food. It should be something they want.”

“Do . . .” Dori stared at him. “Do you want it?”

“I want to protect our people.” Frerin spoke with certainty. He was not so much older than Dori. How could he know so firmly what he desired in life?

“I . . . I wanted to make thread. Like my father.” Dori leaned down and, greatly daring, tapped Frerin’s shoulder. “He made this material. I recognize the weave, and the hint of gold thread he only put in the fabric that would be going to the royal family.” Frerin glanced down in obvious surprise. “I wanted to work in the South Halls with my family. I wanted to be important, and make beautiful things, because then I could ignore all the rumors that followed my mother’s every step.” Frerin’s gaze jerked back up, met his. “But there’s no need for thread-makers here. There’s no work. But there is a need for dwarves who will fight. There’s a need for guards.” He took a slow breath, and something calm settled over his heart and through his chest. “I joined because I was angry with my mother for bringing more rumors down on us. I joined because I was scared and hungry. But I want to stay. I want to stay and protect our people.”

Frerin smiled at him, a slow-spreading, broad, honest grin that lit up his eyes. “Then I am honored to have you, Master Dori,” he said sincerely. “There are few dwarves I would so trust at my back.” 

He gave the pony’s rump a sharp slap. “Now get moving. I’ll expect to receive a letter about this baby, and I’ll send you some work you can do while you help her out for a few weeks. Can’t have you sitting around idle. You might attack the forest and get us into trouble with some local squirrels!”

A laugh bubbled up in Dori’s throat as the pony jerked forward and set off at an easy trot.

\----

They wouldn’t let Dori into the tent that had been set up, despite his protests that he was the only close family his mother had and she didn’t need to be alone. In the end, his young female cousin ducked though the front flap, looking a bit pale and nervous and held Feya’s hand as the midwife’s loud encouragement wafted through the tent’s sides. It was the healer’s tent, not Feya and Dori’s, larger and closed off completely on all sides for privacy. Feya didn’t scream during the birth, but there were low grunts of pain and pants for air that made Dori feel sick.

_I should have helped her more._

_I should have let her talk about the baby._

_I should have known when this was going to happen._

_I should stay here and help instead of going back._

But that thought made something rise and press at his throat, choking him more than the sounds of his mother’s pain did.

Only a couple of hours after his arrival, the midwife appeared with a bundle of worn but clean blankets in her arms and said, “Your mother wants you to be the first to hold him.”

For a long moment, Dori didn’t move. Every dwarf knew that, traditionally, a father held his child first. If the father was gone – if he had died in battle, or on patrol, or in an attack by a _dragon_ – the maternal uncle was next in line, and down the succession of male relatives. In the first months after Erebor, it had been difficult to find a male adult relative to take on a paternal role for the handful of babies born. But it was still adults, male adults who agreed to serve as a dedicated male in the dwarfling’s life.

Dori was _thirty-one,_ and only barely that.

He opened his mouth to argue, to refuse, but nothing came out. The midwife, finally out of patience, stepped forward and held the infant against his chest until his hands rose automatically to take the small body from her.

“The babe is a boy,” the midwife said. Once that would have been a cause for some disappointment – girls were so rare, that after having a son to carry on the line, it was a matter of some pride to follow with a girl. However, of the children, more females than males had escaped the mountain, and in these times, all children were even more sacred than they had always been. “Your mother has chosen a name. You should go in to her now.”

Dori pushed down a wave of something close to panic and forced himself to look this new life – his brother – in the face. He couldn’t see much – a squashed nose, red cheeks – and a sudden sense of his own strength kept him from daring to move one hand to move the blanket. 

A hand at the small of his back gave him a little push. “Inside, lad. Your mother wants to see the babe as well, and she’s liable to try and get out of bed if you stay out here gaping.”

Dori, as any good dwarf would, followed the midwife’s orders.

Feya beamed as he approached. Everything had been cleaned around her and she was tucked into the feather mattress under a worn quilt. The midwife’s tent had the best of everything, for good reason. “Dori!” she cried, holding out her hands. She looked very pale, but not unwell. “They told me you’d come. Isn’t he beautiful?”

Dori stepped forward, sliding the babe into his mother’s hands with relief. She shifted him against her breast, stroking gentle fingers over his cheeks and pushing the blanket out of the way to reveal his forehead and cheeks. The babe was a mottled red, his face squashed and grumpy-looking, and where most dwarf babes had both heads and cheeks with hair, this one had only a few stray hairs scattered over his oddly-shaped head. 

“Beautiful” was not the word Dori would have chosen. He’d never spent time with a newborn. Babes were kept close to the family for the first few months. Perhaps he would grow more attractive with time?

Feya certainly didn’t seem upset by the clear ugliness of the baby, since she cooed over him and traced his tiny eyebrows. “I do believe they’re red,” she said, pleased, since Dori was his father made over, with his gray eyes and silvering hair. 

“He . . . doesn’t have any other hair.”

Feya hummed agreement. “That’s unusual but not unheard of. He’ll grow some soon enough.” She kissed the infant’s head, and then smiled up at her elder son. “Don’t you want to know his name?” she asked, with a hint of teasing in her tone.

“The midwife said you’d chosen one.” Mothers chose names, of course, since they did all the work of bringing the child into the world, though they were usually decided ahead of time by both parents. Dori sighed and sat gingerly on the bed. This still all seemed surreal. His mother with a baby. He’d never imagined having siblings, not after his father died. Not that he and the babe were full siblings. Not that he even knew who this babe’s father was. Not that-

“His name is Nori.”

Something rose in Dori’s chest, a low growl of anger. “You can’t-you can’t name him after _my father_!” he snarled, and he was taken aback and immediately ashamed at his own tone. In his mother’s arms, the babe started a bit, but then he yawned instead of crying. 

Feya was quiet a moment, her head bowed. Her rich red-brown hair was pulled into a thick braid and tucked over her shoulder, and he thought of his childhood in the South Halls, of his serious mother and his smiling father curled up in bed as they read him stories, and her hair braided just like that but with bright ribbons his father made for her woven in the thick strands. “I’m sorry-” he started, and he was. Sincerely. But she couldn’t seriously consider-

“I am not naming your brother after Khori,” she said firmly, touching the round cheek as the baby’s eyes fluttered open. They were dark blue, like many babies. Dori wondered if they would lighten to gray like his, or darken to green like Feya’s, or become the color of his unknown father. Would he look like his father? Would Dori know, would the baby know when he grew up, who spilled seed and moved on, just from the way he looked?

Dori hoped suddenly that the babe would be their mother made over.

“I am naming him after you.”

Dori closed his eyes. “I’m not his father. I can’t be his father.”

“I know that. I’m not asking that of you. Dori, I have _never_ asked that of you. You assume and you flare up and you run away when you should stay and talk, as your father would have done.” She sighed. “You are so much your grandmother sometimes. And I do not mean that as an insult, before you get angry. She was a strong woman. Much stronger than me. I’m glad you’re like her, though you could listen a bit more and panic a bit less.” She gave him a small smile and he felt his own lips curve into an answering one. 

“This is your _brother_. He has no father, and that is my choice, not his. Not Nori’s. Not yours. But he is your brother. And I would have him acknowledged as such by our people. And,” that unusual steel slipped into her diffident voice, “by you.”

Dori looked down at the babe, whose dark eyes wandered and seemed, for a moment, to focus on him. Such an ugly, squashed little thing to bring such fierce protectiveness out in his timid mother. 

One tiny hand reached out of the blankets, four perfect fingers and a miniscule thumb, and Dori reached out without consciously meaning to and touched the palm, no bigger than his own thumbprint. The fingers curved around one of his, and the baby made a noise like a burp and a hiccup. The dark eyes flew wide in surprise.

Dori laughed softly.

“Hello, baby,” he said quietly. “Welcome to the world.”


	7. Babies and Princes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after Nori’s birth, a messenger came with a message from Lord Fundin, officially granting Dori one month's leave to help Feya. 
> 
>  
> 
> _Dori adjusts to life as a big brother and has an unexpected visitor._

The morning after Nori’s birth, a messenger came with a message from Lord Fundin, officially granting Dori one month's leave to help Feya. Close on his heels was one of the trained soldiers who delivered food to the soldiers’ and trainees’ families, with extra rations for a nursing mother. “Sign for it,” the old dwarf grunted, watching carefully as Dori did before handing over the supplies. Then, with a muttered, “Congratulations,” he continued on his way.

He was their only visitor.

Births were usually a cause for great celebration among dwarves, even here on the road where supplies were scarce and life was endlessly hard. A new babe was cause for families, so greatly diminished in the loss of Erebor, to put aside the endless struggle and just _celebrate life_. The first few days were reserved for family, and then on the fifth for neighbors, who would bring whatever small gifts they could make from the scraps they picked up on the road.

The first four days of the baby’s life were normal enough, as Dori’s two surviving cousins and their mother did come by. The daughters popped in much more often than their mother, who visited only once, looked the baby over, and left again with her nose in the air (“As if,” Feya growled after her, “she has anything to be so high and mighty about”). The girls were more accepting, however, and enjoyed taking turns holding and cooing over the baby as long as he was content. Once he started fussing, however, they delivered him straight into Dori’s arms.

“I don’t know anything about babies!” he protested the first time, and Nona laughed right in his face.

“Guess you’ll need to learn,” she said with a grin, and skipped out with her sister. 

Dori did learn. He learned to change a diaper on the afternoon of the very day the baby was born, when his mother was asleep and the midwife wouldn’t take any excuses about his being a brother and not a father. “Brothers,” she informed him crossly, “have changed diapers since the Seven Mothers had their first sons and daughters. Stop fussing and wipe that bum.” 

He learned to burp the baby after he ate, to rock the baby in his makeshift cradle when he fussed, and to swaddle the baby when it was time to sleep. He learned far more about babies than he had any real interest in knowing, all under his mother’s fond and watchful eye, and all without quite looking the baby in the face. It was almost as if by not looking at it he could erase any impact it might have on his life and his family.

“You should leave training and come back home,” she said as she handed the baby over after bathing him, all warm and pink. “Look how fond he is of you.”

Dori didn’t answer, just slipped the soft clothes his mother had made from many-times-handed-down cloth on the baby’s tiny frame as the infant watched him with dark, strangely serious eyes. He was a quiet baby, if still quite an ugly one. 

The food they received each day was the best Dori had eaten in months, quiet possibly in years. They were currently camped on the edge of a forest owned by Men, and hunting had been plentiful. Durin’s Folk were finally eating enough meat, some at every meal. They didn’t receive the choicest parts of their kills, since that went to the Men, but even offal was filling and nutritious in a way gathered vegetation could never be.

The improved diet showed in better color in the faces of adults and the return of the proper gentle curve in the cheeks of the children. As a nursing mother, Feya received the choicest meat of what was available. Dwarves knew that healthy mothers made for healthy babies.

Morning dawned on the fifth day, when their neighbors should have arrived. Dori was somewhat surprised when he saw that his mother didn’t save back any portions from their breakfast. “What will you do if you have guests?” he asked.

She looked at him with steady green eyes. “No one will come,” she said, her voice carefully even and unconcerned. “If by some chance they do, they will have to understand that I am eating for two, and not expect any tidbits from the mouth of my babe and my son.”

Dori stared at her, knowing his mouth was hanging open a bit. This was not his quiet mother, who had leaned always into his father’s side and hidden her face behind falls of richly colored curls. This was a woman who spoke with determination, a hard edge in her voice and distance in her gaze. He felt, for a moment, as if he was sitting at the table with a stranger, and he didn’t know how to respond.

She was right, though.

No one came.

The sun set on his tiny brother’s visitation day without a single guest.

Dori stood in the opening of the tent with the resting babe in his arms, and watched the sun set beyond the camp. Dozens of whispers from his childhood, words that had dogged his steps and burned his ears long before he understood what _might as well be a bastard_ and _practically children, should have given him to someone who could care for him properly_ meant. “You’re a baby,” he murmured, “it’s not your fault what choices Mother makes for you.”

The baby shifted and let out a tiny hiccup that shook his frame. When Dori glanced down, it was to see the little eyes wide with shock, the tiny mouth open in a minute o of surprise. He chuckled despite himself, and it felt as if something in his chest shifted, just a bit, as he looked properly into the round face. 

“You’re going to have a lot of challenges growing up,” he told the baby, and unlike all those earlier moments, he kept his eyes on the infant’s. The baby’s wandered a bit over his face, and one small hand opened and closed, opened and closed next to his small ear. Dwalin fancied he had a rather sharp nose, like Feya. “But I . . . I’ll do my best to help you with it.” He shifted the baby up a bit closer, catching a scent of milk and the bit of powder they’d managed to get their hands on. “Nori.”

\----

Nori’s anonymity ended on the seventh day of his life. Just as Dori became convinced he wasn’t going to drop, crush, toss, or otherwise break the baby, a prince of Erebor stopped by to say hello. 

Dori was checking Nori’s diaper when a bell rang outside the tent – the politest way their people had for asking entry into someone’s home. The bells were hung on a support pole, a remnant of life in the mountain, and every dwarf knew his or her bell as well as they would a parent’s voice. Feya crossed to the flap and pushed at it, closed against the deepening chill in the air. “Ye-” she began, but her voice caught before she could finish the single word.

“Hello!” came a familiar and friendly voice, a bit rough around the edges as always. “You must be Mistress Feya. Is Dori home? I’ve brought some things for him to work on and I thought I might pay my respects, as I heard there’s a new member of the family about?”

“Frerin!” Dori yelped, none too calmly, and he did perhaps fumble his burden a bit, resulting in a sort of hiccupping coo from the baby in question. 

Frerin leaned around Feya, hazel eyes and open grin appearing over her shoulder. “Dori! I know you’re on leave, but I also know how you get when you don’t have something to do. We can’t have you stomping through the forest, knocking down trees, while we’re depending on the hunters.” He winked, or did his best approximation of one. He was not particularly good at it, and the awkwardness somehow added to his charm rather than detracting from it. “So I brought you a bit of sewing to do.”

Dori’s mother made a low noise of utter shock before straightening her spine and lifting her chin. When she spoke, it was with the careful accent she’d learned in Erebor, cultivated among the merchants who worked with nobility. It was only when she talked that Dori realized she’d not been speaking that way for the last several months. “My lord Frerin,” she said, and stepped aside. “It is an honor to have you here.”

Frerin beamed at her and took her hand, bowing low over it as he would to a noble lady vying for his hand, were he a bit older. “The honor is entirely mine,” he said. “I’m only sorry I couldn’t come on his visitation day.”

“That would have been interesting,” Dori muttered, and Frerin shot him a questioning look as he ducked into the small tent. Dori bit the inside of his lip and shook his head, which only made the prince’s curiosity visually increase. There would be no escaping without an explanation now. He’d just have to hope he could get Frerin on his own before the interrogation started. He decided on a rather low but effective diversion tactic, shifting the little bundle in his arms and saying, “This is Nori.”

Frerin’s eyebrows rose even more at the name, but they lowered as he leaned forward to look Dori’s brother in the face. 

Nori gazed back at him, his little face grave and considering. Feya claimed that Dori had demanded attention from day one; Nori seemed to know, somehow, that it was better to be quiet and ignored. He rarely fussed but watched always, eyes wandering aimlessly until they zeroed in on something with an almost disquieting intensity.

“Well hello there, baby,” Frerin said, and he offered one pinky to the babe.

Nori flitted a look at it, then wiggled a hand free and wrapped it around the finger with all the solemnity of a young lord at court.

Frerin laughed. “It appears,” he said, “that being stuffy and a bit difficult runs in the family.”

Nori blinked, yawned, and tugged the finger toward his mouth as Dori made a soft sound of disagreement.

“Afraid not, little one,” Frerin said with what sounded like genuine regret. “As a son of the line of Durin, I have a responsibility not to be eaten by babies. Maybe when Thorin’s all grown and fathering sons, but you’ll be a bit old for it by then.” He straightened, and then smiled brightly at Dori and the flustered Feya. There was finally some pink back in her cheeks, and it made he look young again. 

_Young again,_ Dori thought wryly, _as if she isn’t already more the age of a first-time mother than a mother of two._

Feya adjusted her already straight shoulders and said, “I’m sorry we don’t have any refreshments to offer. We weren’t – we weren’t expecting anyone.”

“Refreshments? Ah no, dear lady, it is I who bears gifts, not the other way around!” Frerin bowed grandly, in the manner of one of the old noblemen of Dale, and Feya’s cheeks pinked a bit more as her eyes crinkled at the edges with rare humor. “Come along, Dori, hand off that baby and help me carry everything in.” He leaned in conspiratorially to Feya. “If you didn’t know, your son is quite conveniently strong. I have him carry heavy things for me on a regular basis.” And he winked again.

Feya hid her laugh behind one thin hand as Frerin ducked back out.

“You didn’t tell me you were friends with a prince,” Feya hissed, still smiling though her eyes were wide.

“We train together,” Dori said, ignoring the twist in his chest at the word _friend._ He hadn’t dared to think it himself. “Here, I’ll be right back.” He handed over Nori, who acquiesced to the changeover with a soft coo and a nuzzle at his mother’s breast. 

“Greedy thing,” Feya murmured to him, but her eyes shone as she shifted him in her arms to prepare for feeding.

Dori joined Frerin beside one of the stockiest, most temperamental ponies. He was such a difficult beast that the recruits called him Dharg – the Troll – but he would deign to allow Prince Thorin or Prince Frerin to ride him as they pleased. Dori, being a dwarf of good sense, gave the pony a wide berth with the prince between them. “What did you bring for me to work on?”

“Well, first there’s the baby packet. This is all Balin’s idea, you’ll be the third to get it.” Frerin pulled a small cloth bundle from one saddlebag and handed it over. Dori ran his fingers over it, taking in the soft weave and realizing, with some surprise, that it was a small blanket. “There’s some cloth for diapers and a few . . . other things inside. Sorry, babies aren’t my specialty. Dis is a bit old for any of that. For you, I’ve got some mending. And do you know anything about knitting? We’ve traded for some wool and Fundin wants mittens made for some of the soldiers. When you get back, I think he’ll have you working with some of our leather makers, sewing jerkins.” Frerin’s mind flitted from one topic to the other even as he added a skein of yarn and some folded tunics on top of the bundle in Dori’s arms. 

“Ah, no, but I’m sure someone will be willing to teach me.” Dori tipped his head to the side to see around his burden.

“Hmm. You’re sure?” Frerin’s brows drew down as he frowned, dark and concerned. “Aren’t you,” he looked around, “aren’t you having some trouble? Did no one come for visitation?”

“No. No one came.” Dori didn’t explain why. Frerin could be naïve in many ways, but he wasn’t a complete fool. “My mother wasn’t surprised. I suppose I shouldn’t have been either.”

“Well, he’s a cute baby. People will warm up to him.” Frerin adjusted the skein so it wouldn’t slide off.

“Cute?” Dori asked. “He’s an ugly little scrap of a thing. I’ve been hoping all babies look like that and he’ll grow out of it.”

When Frerin laughed, he did so whole-heartedly, his shoulders shaking and his head back. He laughed now, loud enough that Dori heard the rustle of the tent behind them as his mother peeked out. “He doesn’t have much hair, but other than that he looks about normal,” he assured Dori. “I love babies. They’re huge fun, especially if you can pass them off for diaper changes.” When Dori grumbled at this he said, “Ah, you let somebody teach you. Never, ever let anyone teach you to do disgusting things.” He clapped Dori on the shoulder and moved forward to open the flap. “Because then they’ll expect you to do them!”

\----

One day slid into another.

Dori worked his way methodically through the mending, sending it on with one of the guards when it was all finished. Wanting to stay busy, he then hunted down several weavers, who pointed him on to a pair of grandmothers who taught him the basics of knitting. He couldn’t say he enjoyed it – the constant angle of his neck made it sore – but he picked up the basics quickly enough. Though mittens, he learned, were not at all the basics, so he sent a message suggesting that the grandmothers be paid in some way to make the mittens. His return letter was from Balin, thanking him for the idea and giving orders that he should make a deal with the pair. 

Nerves and excitement mixed up in his chest as Dori worked up a contract with them, the females sharp but not demanding more than was appropriate. When he received a scrap of reused paper with the words “Well done” on it in Balin’s spiky handwriting, Dori felt a flush of pride.

He missed the constant scheduled activity of the training camp, and so he made a schedule for himself. He exercised and ran, cooked and cleaned, cared for the baby so his mother could rest, and did whatever tasks were sent his way by Balin or Fundin. Frerin never delivered another message personally, though he did send a few notes along with the clothes and boots Dori was to mend, and once, a small toy “for Nori,” made of scraps of material with leather eyes, rather clumsily stitched.

Dori secretly restitched the thing before presenting it to his mother, half from worry that it would fall apart if Nori pulled on it too hard, and half from a sense that one shouldn’t show off that the King’s son was a poor hand at stitching. 

On the morning of Nori’s one month birthday, Dori packed his small bag and swung it to his shoulders.

“You’re sure you can’t stay?” Feya asked as she fussed with his training braid and smoothed out his faint beard. 

“I’ve work to do,” Dori said, but he said it gently this time, and not angrily. “More training, so I can defend everyone better.”

Feya sighed, but didn’t lash out with accusations that he was selling himself to the army when he was meant to be something better. “Nori will miss you.”

Dori smiled and kissed his mother’s cheek. “He’ll be fine, you’ll see. And I’ll come visit one weekend a month, at least.” He reached for the pony, who had been sent with the warrior who brought his orders to return to camp and stayed outside, placidly nibbling at grass, overnight. “And if we move soon, as people think we will, I’ll see you even sooner.” The rumor mill throughout the camp claimed they would head south this time, in hope of finding warmer plains to survive the winter than they had the year before. He swung into the saddle with as much grace as he could muster around ponies. “Fare well, Mother,” he said, bowing his head respectfully.

Feya turned the little bundle in her hands so that Nori could look up at him – the babe’s eyes were turning green, he thought, and his little face was still so serious and quiet most of the time that it sometimes scared him in the wee hours, when he thought babies were meant to be fussy. Dori got the message and tilted his head at the sleepy-eyed baby. “Fare well, Nori,” he said, and turned to ride back to camp – to ride back home.

\----

The rumor was true, though no one had predicted where they were going.

“The Men want us to move on,” Prince Thorin said to the warriors and recruits, glaring fiercely over them as his voice rumbled through the air. He looked much older than he was, solid and strong, and Dori had never seen him smile. “Winter is coming, and I have asked for,” his voice faltered a moment, “assistance from our kin.” There was a soft explosion of whispers at this. Every dwarf knew that their king had asked help not only from the heartless elves, but also from other dwarves, and received very little response. A few supplies had arrived for them, but that was all. “Only one has finally offered us succor.” He motioned with one hand, and Balin and Fundin began moving among the warriors as Frerin and Dwalin did the same with the trainees. “You will receive your assignments for the move. We will be on the road for five weeks. We are going,” his eyes narrowed as he turned his head west, “to the Iron Hills.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story exists in the same universe as _Arrogance_ , and actually existed in parts before I ever started that story. It's rather close to my heart, as I am writing Dori as a contentedly asexual/aromantic character. A good dollop of the characterizations come from the wonderful interviews given by Mark Hadlow, Jed Brophy, and Adam Brown for the _Chronicles_ and behind-the-scenes extras, along with their fantastic performances in the films (I adore watching all the dwarves interacting in the background!).


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